Welcome Home
by DramaticRose714
Summary: Harry likes the way Louis moves on Sunday mornings.


Harry likes the way Louis moves on Sunday mornings.

He likes the way Louis pours the milk into his cereal bowl, and then faithfully shakes the Honey Nut Cheerios into place.

He likes the way his eyes droop and his hands swoop and clutch the tan skin on the backside of his neck after a long night of performing.

He also likes the way Lou is blissfully oblivious to Harry's wandering eyes and wistful sighs and silent cries in the dead of the night.

Maybe he likes it all a little too much.

There are always a few extra i's tagged onto the end of Harry's hi for Lou, but he can't help that. Snow falls down outside their kitchen window, covering the cement like a blanket, which is nice because Harry thinks something that hard needs protection more than anything else. If that makes any sense.

The padding of feet tells him Louis is up, and Harry desperately tries to feel something, anything, but the emptiness overwhelming him. He takes a swig of orange juice out of the carton before stumbling into a stool next to the counter.

Harry's never been a morning person, but he can't seem to sleep past nine anymore. He chalks it up to the excitement of the tour ending.

Louis walks into the room, and he stops breathing. Fringe is falling into those beautiful, drowsy blues of his, and Harry thinks he's drowning.

"Morning" Louis chirps, his voice still scratchy with sleep.

"G'morning" Harry mumbles in response, straying from the normal greeting pattern. A large hand combs through his mass of curls self-consciously.

"What's on the agenda for today?" Lou asks, pulling open the refrigerator door.

"Nothing much" Harry says through a bite of toast. He swallows hard. "Might visit Gemma later, but nothing's set in stone."

"Well that's a refreshing change." A smile flashes in his direction, and Harry tries to match it as sincerely as he can. He thinks back, wondering if things were always this nerve-racking with Louis. Perhaps so.

Louis tilts his chin for a spoonful of cereal, and the light streaming through the window chose then to illuminate the perfection that is Harry's roommate.

Harry stares for a beat too long, but in his defense the freckles on the arch of Louis's nose seemed to duplicate over night. With his perfectly messy tufts of reddish brown hair, crinkly eyes, and fluttering black lashes, he may as well have been Michael Angelo's David 2.0.

"What?" Louis queries, touching his cheek. "Is there something on my face?"

Harry shakes his head a little too fast. "No, it's nothing." He slides off the stool and onto the wooden floor, watching his feet while walking into the living room.

His feet were too big; he had never noticed before. Was that why he was so clumsy? It could have been his gangly stature, too. He was practically a Sasquatch with a nasty case of behead, and Louis was a marble statue. Life was cruel.

Harry falls onto the coach, feeling like Goldilocks in the baby bear's spot with his ankles hanging atop the armrest. He reaches for the clicker and switches the telly on, putting on last night's recording of the X Factor. Seeing Simon's familiar scowling face puts him at ease. The man put on a good show, Harry muses. A small smile plays on his overly red lips.

"Is that Simon?" Louis laughs, peering at the screen. "He really needs to buy more tee shirts." He yawns, stretching his arms over his head.

"Well? Are you just going to sit there or are you going to scoot your nonexistent arse over so I don't have to sit on the rug?" Louis raises an eyebrow expectantly.

"Fine" Harry huffs playfully, pushing over to the edge of the loveseat. Louis plops directly in the middle of the couch, grinning at the kid beside him.

Harry, meanwhile, tries to put himself together. Why couldn't he have sat on the _other _cushion instead of sitting so close Harry could smell the soap on his skin?

Harry likes the way Louis moves on Sunday mornings, but sometimes he wishes Louis wouldn't move so quick so close.

…

Sometimes, when it's late and the moon is hiding and the clouds blotch the stars out, Harry can pretend he isn't aching.

Louis likes to go exploring in the dark. Harry will tag along; two steps behind, carrying a pair of loafers in his arms.

"Hazza, hurry up!" Louis would shout, and Harry would chase after him, laughing all the while.

Miles away and hours later, Louis would end up on the grass, wet with dew and in his sleepy mindset, Harry likes to think the stars came down to sit with them.

Louis would talk about the endless possibilities of the nighttime, and that he loves the feeling of absolution that comes with racing through the blackness, and how he gets to be the only constellation in the sky for a night. That's when Harry would pick up Lou's tiny, scratched feet and slip the spare shoes atop them. Louis would fight him the entire time, squirming and pushing against the restriction. But Harry never wants Lou to be cut.

Harry is familiar with the way giggles bubble out of Louis's chest on nights like that, and how his cheekbones are almost pointy beneath the streetlights.

He smiles at how breathtakingly innocent Louis looks in his too-big shoes, wandering throughout the streets with a grace Harry knows he'll never have but feels blessed to be near.

In a way, Harry feels like a boat, lost at sea, and that Louis is like his tour guide. He says this aloud, because the night is so crisp and safe and free and nothing can hurt him there.

"That's a compass, you dummy" Louis mocks him, but Harry finds it endearing. He nearly laughs himself, because Louis misunderstood. A compass points you in the right direction. A tour guide shows you the brighter things in life and how enchanting things can be, even cheap little tourist traps that only hold amusement to the travelers. But with Louis, Harry thinks he can always be a traveler, forever walking among the shiny attractions.

But then they reach the scruffy Welcome Home mat perched outside their flat and Harry has to physically hold his chest to fend off the pain.

…

Cooking isn't exactly Louis's forte, but that doesn't stop him from wandering around the kitchen. Harry wonders if his blush is due to the nearby flame or his roommate's frisky behavior.

Chopping peppers proves to be a difficult task, what with Louis breathing down his neck. Harry's thoughts range from cut here, slice there, chop that, stop that, control your dick, cut there, dice that, _and mother of god control your dick_.

Harry puts Louis in charge of making a toss salad on the other side of the counter, hoping his culinary prowess can rub off on him from a suitable distance.

Louis throws a handful of tomatoes, a splash of onions, and a few pieces of pepper in with the lettuce as Harry instructed. Somehow it looks more like a mashed up dip than a salad, but Harry cannot bear to tell Lou his masterpiece looks like a disaster zone. Instead, he smiles and says "It looks great" and Louis positively beams at him.

It feels sort of domestic, Harry thinks, sitting here with him. Sure, he could have made a better salad with the use of a flamethrower, but Louis's pride is a prize. Harry throws together the Chicken Parmesan and Louis sets the table with both the fork and knife to the right of the plate and Harry holds back his grin.

Drenching the salad in Balsamic Vinaigrette is the way to go, Harry muses. Across the table, Louis is cutting his chicken into tiny pieces with the butter knife and Harry wonders how he got so lucky as to live with the goofball. Then he wonders how he got so unlucky as to have fallen in love with him.

He slides the Italian dressing towards Lou across the table. They eat in comfortable silence, occasionally making faces at each other mid-bite.

Harry clears the table and slides the plates into the dishwasher while Louis wipes down the table with a towel.

Then Harry feels something hit his face, and gives an amused look to the snickering older-but-still-young man as he folds up the towel and strolls to the freezer. Harry pulls out a porcelain bowl and a silver spoon, before scooping the remainder of chocolate fudge brownie ice cream from its container.

He takes one step into his room before backtracking, with a wild Louis on his tail, fighting for a bite or seven. They wind up on the floor of the living room eating off of the same spoon.

"You're buying the next carton" Harry drawls, looking at Louis pointedly as he swallows the last drip of ice cream.

"We'll see" he replies jokingly, brushing himself off and walking back towards his room.

Harry ends up buying the next carton, and the one after that.

…

But then the rain pours down and the stars stare with their withering gazes and Louis gets drunk yet again.

He isn't a happy drunk, contrary to popular belief. Not that he's a mean drunk either, but Harry thinks he's too straightforward to be kind in that mindset. Not that Harry's a babe-on-a-beach whilst intoxicated, but he's better than Lou.

Tonight, it seems, Louis has a lot on his mind when he bursts through the doorway at half past two in the morning.

"Harreh" he calls, his tiny feet sloshing against the kitchen tiles.

Harry wishes he had gone to bed hours ago and could sleep through it all, but this is Lou and Harry can't help but peek out into the hallway.

"Hi Louis" he says, taking a step. Louis comes into view, drenched from head to toe, but if Harry isn't mistaken, his eyes look a tad too pink around the edges.

"Harreh, don't you trust me?" Lou slurs loudly, his eyebrows furrowing.

"What? Of course I do. Where is this coming from?" Harry's heart picks up speed as Lou stumbles closer.

He his watery eyes narrow at the younger boy, his body now invading his personal space. "Don't lie. Everyone lies, and you've never been everyone, Haz." Louis took a step even closer and tilted his head up to stare at his roommate.

"I don't understand, Lou. I'm not lying, why would you think I would?" Harry's words come out jumbled, because he's talking faster now, anxious to reassure him, nearly swallowing his own tongue in the process.

"Stop, just stop stop stop!" Louis's voice raises an octave, and the smell of whiskey is strong in his breath. Harry locks his knees to ensure he will not fall. If anything will make him topple over, it's Louis.

Tiny fists push at Harry's chest, and everything about Louis is suddenly _so small_ and Harry wants nothing more than to cradle him in his unusually long arms until every doubt in that tiny head of his fades into nothingness.

Latching onto Louis's flailing fists, Harry tries to catch his eye.

"Look at me" he instructs, trying so hard to get through to him. Lashes flutter lightly and green meets blue and Harry wonders where he left his inhaler.

"I trust you. Hell, I trust you more than I trust myself." He doesn't dare to blink. "Do you understand that? Or do I need to make myself clearer?"

Louis's eyes flash like lightning, and Harry knows this fight was far from over.

"No, you don't have to explain yourself, I am not a little kid" Louis spat, pushing against Harry's hold once again. "Let go of me you fucking tosser!"

"Not until you tell me what all of this is about" Harry says, stray curls sticking to his face.

"As if you don't know, you self-centered, thoughtless, prat." Louis' glare hardens.

"No, I really don't know, care to enlighten me?" Harry should have known better than to fight back, but Lou was hard enough to deal with sober, and Harry was done playing the peacemaker every. single. time.

"Happily" Lou hisses, "because unlike you I have no issue talking about my problems. Although my problems are more on the spectrum of abandonment issues and yours stem from being around _me."_

Harry sucks in a breath and Louis continues without pause. "In fact, a reliable source let it slip that you were going to leave the fucking band."

"What?" Harry shouts. "What the absolute hell? No, I never planned to leave, but maybe because I'm such a lying, selfish prat, I should think about it."

"Fine! Go, see if I give a damn!" Harry releases Lou's hands and stalks off towards his bedroom, because he just cannot handle all of this anymore. He pulls a suitcase from the top of his closet and begins tossing clothes and toiletries in. He finishes in five minutes flat and nearly runs into Louis, still fuming in the doorway.

"So this is it, you're going to runaway after all?" Louis laughs bitterly. "I should have known." He is a mere five inches away, if that, and Harry couldn't bear to breath.

"Yeah, I am, actually" Harry replies curtly. "I've been stuck here for so long I no longer know what's up and what's down, so maybe running away is my only option left." His tone is quiet and clipped, leaving no room for interpretation.

They stare each other down, searching for weakness, cracks in armor that appears to protect but glints sharply, like flimsy decoration.

Harry spots a chink, tiny, but there nonetheless. So he lunges forward.

Louis gasps against Harry's mouth, and Harry's eyes blinked open to see Louis staring back at him in utter shock. He jumps away as though burnt, and Harry's hands untangle themselves from Lou's hair remarkably fast.

Harry grips on tight to the rubber handle of his suitcase and flees out the door without another glance, embarrassed by his desperation. Silence meets his ears as he hustles into the hall, and a sigh breaks through his chest because a small part of him thought that could have solved everything. That, if Louis had any love for him in that way, he would have reciprocated or called after him or something, _anything_. He nearly breaks down. Nearly.

The elevator music is too cheerful and so is the old chap on the other end of the lift and Harry wants to drown in his sorrows and self-hatred for a while.

So he steps out into the pouring rain and allows himself to feel again.

…

He winds up at Nick Grimshaw's place, because out of all the people that legitimately give a crap about him anymore, Nick would best cheer him up.

(Harry thinks it's merely a plus that Grimmy might be the one person to hate Louis more than he does at the moment.)

Grimmy knows how to make waffles and clean up after himself and Harry is grateful, he really is, but somehow all of this makes him miss Louis more.

He makes up his bed- well the futon, but it's close enough- and fluffs his pillow to break the time. His phone buzzes on the floor, so Harry kicks it underneath the couch where it can't bother him.

He curls up on the sofa for a few hours watching reruns of _Friends _and talking to the characters on the screen as if they'll acknowledge him.

He watches Friends because he has none, Harry muses, chuckling a little at the concept. Between raiding the pantry and flipping channels on the telly like it is an Olympic sport, Harry finds that the time passes rather quickly.

Around 11:15am, he throws on a tee shirt and a rather tight pair of jeans. He pauses at his suitcase and twirls the silly hat on his finger for a moment. It was atrocious and he accidently tossed it in the night before, but Harry reminded himself change was good. So he placed the fedora on his head, adjusted it in the mirror, and headed out into town.

Wandering without his guide was strange. It wasn't as liberating as Harry expected it to be, and he feels his stomach sink.

Harry wonders if Lou would sulk in silence or tell the other boys about their little discussion. He also wonders if Louis would remember the "talk" at all when he woke up to find Harry's bed made and closet bare.

Was it so bad that he hopes Louis is hurting? At least that would mean he cares.

…

Weeks pass, and the fans are starting to notice Harry's detached behavior.

Liam, Niall, and Zayn have visited him a few times each, but are caught up in their own daily dramas too and cannot stay for long. Harry doesn't blame them. How could he? It was their first vacation in weeks, and making them play the children of divorcee parents is far from fair. He laughs darkly. They can't be divorced if they never had a real relationship to begin with, he thinks.

Louis hasn't called. He hasn't texted either, or made any effort to see Harry for that matter. Harry wonders what he's thinking and if he's been drinking and if he missed Harry laying the aspirin bottle on his bedside table for the morning after.

Harry wonders if he's been missed at all, actually.

Grimmy told him to cover a share of the chores if he wants to hide out at the apartment any longer before heading to the radio station, and Harry really doesn't like being a freeloader.

Which is why Harry is standing in the middle of the supermarket wearing a black hoodie and wayfarers.

Carts are stacked next to the door, and Harry pulls one into his arms, clutching onto the handles with white knuckles.

They used to run through the isles, grabbing onto anything that caught their eye. It was a childish game, but with Lou around, Harry was happy to do anything he suggested.

He pulled a box of crackers off the shelf. In the produce section, he spotted the bananas and inspected a bundle for bruises.

_ Your obsession with bananas is becoming unhealthy, Haz._ The memory echoes in his head, and despite having discovered the only bundle without so much as a scratch on its skin, he sets it back on top of the pile

Harry finishes collecting the items on Grimmy's messy list and starts towards a cashier. Setting his items on the conveyor belt, his eyes catch onto a familiar face gazing back at him. He pulled the magazine off its rack and peered down at the inscription on page twenty-eight with fiery eyes.

"The only direction boy band 1D is traveling is into a downward spiral, says an insider. Harry Styles has been MIA for weeks now and when band mate Louis Tomlinson was asked for a statement about the disappearance of our favorite yeti, he reacted with grace. A simple yet eloquent "piss off" was directed at the reporter. Could this be the beginning of the end for One Direction?"

"Sir, could you swipe your card?" A young woman calls him back to the present.

"Yeah, sure" he mumbles, following her instructions mindlessly.

He couldn't cost the rest of the boys their careers just because he was broken up that Louis was hetero, which he should have figured from the beginning. Just because he paid a little more attention to Harry than the other during X-Factor didn't mean anything. Nothing.

There wasn't anyway to take back that evening, he knows, but he could make this as painless as possible for the others. It was time he cleared out of the apartment and gave Lou his space. The thought of living alone did not exactly appeal to him, he thought with chagrin, and he expects Grimmy's tattered couch will not be comfortable for much longer.

It was possible Ed would let him stay for a while, before Harry was forced to return to the tour. Harry calls and asks, hoping for the best and expecting the worst, but Ed is kind about everything. As long as Harry clears out his room and explains the whole story, he has a guest room with his name on it.

He pulled the hoodie over his head as the rain crashes down. It isn't a drizzle, but it's far from pouring down. He wishes nature was more decisive, because the constant gray was giving him a migraine.

…

The lights are flinchingly bright, and Harry wonders why Lou is still awake at this time of night. He shuts the door softly behind him before slipping his shoes off and padding his way across the wood to his room.

It's just as he left it. The door slides open with a slight creak, and Harry struggles to breath. A lamp is still lit in the corner, dimly blinking back at him. A neat pile of clothes is sitting on his dresser, and he takes a hesitant step towards it. He shrugs the empty bag off his shoulder and tucks the remaining articles inside.

The bed is a mess of sheets and carelessly tossed blankets, which is quite telling of their relationship, Harry thinks.

A shattered gasp of air leaves him, and he takes those last steps toward the bed. He pulls the sheets up to the headboard and lines the blankets up likewise, wishing everything had such a simple fix.

This bed was never made for two. He runs a hand through his mass of uncombed curls, wishing he could go numb for a day. Or maybe forever.

Sighing, he props the pillow up on the bed. He tries to pull his mind from memories of sleepless nights and pillow fights and late night excursions that end in _platonic _embraces. Instead, he focuses on the fact that they haven't spoken in weeks, and sniffling over evenings that felt as bright as the sun would do nothing for him.

He grips onto the bookshelf to his left, taking a small step backwards. It's a step too far, he realizes, looking down at a familiar face beaming up at him through shattered glass. It must have fallen from the bed when he made it.

Racking his brain, Harry tries to remember placing the photograph on the bed before leaving. He doesn't. And then his eyes start to flood, because the bed wasn't left in this state of disarray before he left, either.

A piece of glass cuts his fingertip, and he places the picture on the top of the bookshelf, afraid of looking at the innocent faces for too long.

Harry Styles from Cheshire wasn't a smiley sixteen year-old anymore, but he couldn't let himself regret his choice. He could never regret that.

Staring at Louis from Doncaster was dangerous, however. If Harry let himself look at the cheerful young lad he wouldn't be able to live with himself for leaving the older version of him.

Inhale. Exhale. It was time he left, but his feet were fused to the floor.

"Harry?" A soft call into the darkness.

He gulps and turns around, staring across the room at the sparkling blue eyes he had missed so much. Harry considers that they were sparkling due to tears. His throat closes up at the thought.

"Hi Lou" he croaks back.

There was a beat, and he stands frozen inside, unable to move towards Louis or sink further into the safety of his room. Louis makes the choice for him, and stumbles into the room, uncharacteristically clumsy. If Harry had not been focusing on the older male's hasty steps, he may have noticed more. The way Louis face was not its usual tan but rather red and splotchy under the overhead lights was overlooked due to the painful jump in his ribcage.

And then Lou is close. Oh so close, but Harry still feels light-years away.

Then Harry is shocked, because thin arms wrap around his waist and a head nestles into his shoulder, sniffling. He extends his own arms to capture the smaller boy in his hold. For centuries they stand there, and Harry feels his lips moving against his neck rather than hearing his words.

"What is it?" Harry whispers, unable to bring is voice any louder. Louis pulls back, and stares at the floor.

"I-I wasn't sure you'd come back" he says. A pang of guilt runs through Harry, because he only came back for his things. He stays quiet, staring down at him.

"Neither was I." Blue meets green and suddenly Harry is drifting again.

Lou reaches up and grabs a fistful of curls, pulling them to the same level. His lips brush over Harry's hesitantly, and it is so unlike his usually domineering attitude that Harry would be confused if he weren't otherwise occupied.

He pulls back for air, or carbon dioxide, or whatever else it is that his lungs want because he cannot quite remember what that is.

"Don't you dare leave me again" Louis murmurs threateningly, but Harry can hear the nervous quiver in his voice.

"Never" Harry agrees, smiling for the first time in weeks.

"Good, because who else will get me another carton of chocolate fudge brownie?" Louis teases. Harry feels them slipping into their old patterns as if nothing has changed. Well, apart from the kissing, he thinks. The kissing is nice.

Harry likes the way Louis moves on Sunday mornings, but he thinks he likes the way Louis moves into his arms best.


End file.
